Participants:
| Scene Title | Rob In Hood, Woman In Tights |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Witch hangings and a female Robin Hood? What the hell?!! |
| Date | December 6, 2010 |
The Town of Havisham
Someone stole the sun. It's been gone for too long with no sign of returning. The earth has become cracked and barren. Crops have wilted without sunlight, and the season hasn't even tried to change. The land itself is cold and empty without the light of the sun to warm it. And someone is to blame.
In the small town of Havisham, the line has been a very long one. One by one the cattle, witches, have been accused, tried, and hung. No one has come out of it yet. The gallows have been used, abused, and reused, too many times to count. Already the pile of dead has grown to more than fifty people, some of them not even residents of the tiny town.
"Abigail Caliban," the hooded executioner reads from a scroll. "You have been accused of witchcraft. On this crime against the King of All and your Kingdom, how do you plead?"
The woman is wrenched from the line and forced up the stairs to face her judge, the jury is that of her peers, or so they say. The jeering masses around the square throwing their rotting produce at the woman and her fellows. In line wait more…
"Innocent" No tears or protests from the short haired Brunette, blue eyes peering from under the fringe of bangs. She flinches at the fruit that connects with her but doesn't duck to avoid it, standing there with shoulder square and back straight. The king of all, the king of nothing in Abigail's mind. "Gods work, not witchcraft" She proclaims loudly, inhaling deeply and trying to look proud, gold cross flat against her collarbone as she takes her turn before judgement. She knows what's coming, no one else has escaped and the odds of her doing so are faint.
The line of women awaiting execution seems endless within the realm. One woman after the next awaits her fate in the executioner's hands. Within the line is one particular gypsy. Her long blonde hair is pinned back at the front. The bright colours she wears were considered a dead give-away. Witch. Or so she'd been accused.
Lydia's dark eyes scan the audience. Witch executions are viewed as nothing more than entertainment, a sport to be enjoyed by the masses. Her lips press together into a thin solid line. In front of her, her hands are bound together, sealed together tightly so she can't make incantations or other mischief. Her head bows low, her gaze downcast, too aware of what her destiny is.
A gloved hand reaches out and lifts the delicate cross in between thick gloved fingers and sharp blue eyes peer at the woman from under the hood. Forbidden blue. Letting it drop back to her collar for only the amount of time it takes a thought to fleet through a mind, the chain is grabbed and yanked. Much to the pleasure of the crowd. It comes away too quickly and the assembly is thrown to the ground unceremoniously.
"SHE'S A WITCH!!! 'ANG 'ER!!" a male voice yells out above the rest. Demanding a penance for all the wrong that's been done. For it is believed that when the witch who stole it is finally dead, the sun will spark back to life and endless night will turn to day once again.
For now, Abigail Caliban is led to the first rope and stood precariously on a wobbly log as the noose if fitted around her neck.
"Lydia Smythe! You are charged with witchcraft by none other than your husband, Edgar Smythe. On this crime against the King of All and your Kingdom, how do you plead?" The voice booms out over the audience. Within it a man with shaggy auburn hair looks shamed, refusing to look up to the gallows as his wife is led up to the stand to face the only punishment that will bring life back.
"No!" Not yelled to the crowd for their demands but to the one who has reached up and wrenched the necklace from her neck, bounds hands moving to try and get it back, take it back, her beloved cross. But Abigail finds her tongue almost stuck to the roof of her mouth with the fear that's going through her veins and she struggles all the way to the gallows, trying to get that cross back, even as they're fitting the noose around her neck.
The comment from the familiar male voice yields reddened eyes and the gentle rolls of tears down Lydia's cheeks. But in her betrayal there is no yelling, no screaming, no shrieking— just silent tears streaking down her face. The pain of the betrayal outweighs any joy that may have remained veiled over that calmed exterior. She pulls her hands away from each other against the restraints, but even this action is met with defeat. She's a fighter, but there are moments when the fight has been beaten from her.
As the first tear falls on the barren ground, the blonde's gaze turns to that of her accuser, the man she's loved for fourteen years. With a quiet sniffle, she ruefully manages a joyless smile. When her words come out they aren't screamed or spat, rather they're pained yet smooth, "How could you?" It's a gentle chide from a woman who never felt like she deserved better.
Finally her gaze turns to the man who has asked her for her plea. But even in the question, there remains interpretation. "The sun disappears not from witchcraft or wizardry but from neglect and regret, emotions that allow us to forget its warmth, brightness, and hope." She swallows before tacking on, "It would be truly morose to steal the sun. Its brightness belongs to no one. I may radiate an inner light, but I could not would not retain that which belongs to all. I did not steal the sun."
"DON'T LET 'ER SPEAK! DON'T LET THE WITCH SPEAK!!" Another voice errupts from the masses and more rotting fruit is pitched toward the poor women already teetering on their logs. One misstep, one flinch in the wrong direction and they will cut their own lives short. One of the women, a smaller blonde with forbidden eyes looses her step and the log falls away from under her. The resulting jolt gives the others cause to scream just a little as the crowd cheers the death.
Her eyes are still open and as she swings back and forth, spinning in a small circle, she too points an accusing stare of death at her fellows. If it weren't for one of the women here, she might still be alive instead of executed for the simple crime of the wrong eye color.
Refusing to look any more, the man with the shaggy auburn hair and patchy beard turns from the gallows, leading two small little girls away by hand. Unlike him, they turn to look over their shoulders. Much like the woman with the noose around her neck, silent tears of anguish stain their cheeks.
One woman goes down and Abigail struggles to maintain her place on the log, keep from a premature death in as much as a five minute difference might make, eye as her own eyes traitorous blue eyes swim with saline. She could call out that the man with the hood has the same blue eyes that the rest of them had. Would they make him pull down his hood and reveal it?
"Our Father who art in heaven…" She starts the Lords prayer instead, speaking it out loud, averting her eyes from the woman who dangles and does the gallows gig from loosing her footing. "Hallowed be they name, they kingdom come…"
With a louder sniffle amid the silent tears, Lydia forces a smile for her girls, the little ones retreating with silent tears all their own. The smile only for them warms, and she mouths the words, 'Have courage my lovelies,' keeping her gaze on them until they turn around again.
Gently, the blonde's eyes close. Her fingers lace together as her eyes close gently. In a way all she can do is accept her fate at this moment, even amid the screams along the line.
The first post is kicked out from under the woman standing on it and Abigail Caliban jerks down. The noose is too long, rather than snapping her neck, it chokes her. Still, the audience is satisfied, it just means she's take that much longer to die. "SHE'S NOT DEAD YET!!" a voice screams, wanting blood.
The distinct singing of a sword being drawn from its sheath can be heard somewhere near her and as Abby swings around to see her hooded executioner, the broken sword of the King of All himself flashes into her view.
"STOP THE EXECUTIONER! 'E'S GOIN'TEH…"
The voice is cut off as Abigail begins to fade from view. The crowd closes in and the logs are kicked, faster and faster, some of the women dying right away, others cursed to the same fate as Abigail, to choke to death. "Find me… find my body.." the blue eyes executioner threatens before the shing sounds out from the sword, flying over Abby's head. It's the last thing she hears before dropping….
Down…
Down…
Down…
Abigail's eyes fly open, shunted from the dream by the executioner, eye wide and blue as they should be. The room she's in is hot, heat radiating off of her at an alarming temperature and in serious danger of getting hotter if not combusting. Clothes damp and drying, thin tendrils of smoke curling off the former blonde as she scrabbles to sit upwards, get away from the bed and get her bearings. Lingfulls of air, in, out, in, out again as she's lost in the panic from the nightmare, her hand going to around her neck as if that might help her breath better.
Death by choking is not a peaceful way to go. Lydia's dark eyes open in turn as she desperately tugs on the rope around her neck, not that it does any good. The weight of her body dangles above the ground, swinging slightly beneath the struggle of her body to escape the clutches of the rough rope.
"Dani? No! Don't go!" The female voice cries out when its owner sees the scenery around her, that of a meadow under the summer sun on a warm day, shimmer and shift into something else, and the woman she addressed vanishes. It causes the woman to dip her head with eyes closing and loose a few tears, a thing no one else sees as the replacement imagery takes shape. Shouts of the crowd are heard, the woman quickly wipes her eyes to remove all evidence tears were shed, it's anathema to this female that anyone should ever see such a sign of weakness from her.
After doing so, she turns her attentions to what's presented before her, this dreamscape she estimates is a medieval execution for witchcraft, where the only condemned persons are female. "Of course," she mutters under her breath, "these things were always really about misogyny." Her jaw sets, she's angry for more reasons than the ongoing executions, crime number one was being ripped away from conversation with Courtney D.
She eyes the woman now being hanged, the executioner in the hood, and the assembled crowd. Next to her a large panther of solidly dark coloration appears, fierce and roaring, and the woman herself snaps fingers. In that instant her attire changes to that of a character from medieval Britain, complete with bow and quiver. An arrow is nocked back, aimed at the rope which is murdering the woman who took over Hokuto's store, and let fly.
The arrow strikes true to its target and Lydia finds herself gasping for breath and choking on the ground. In a moment the executioner is on her, grabbing her roughly by the arm. "Get up!" A familiar voice commands in a tone too harsh to be real, "Get up woman! Flee!" The broken sword is raised over the hooded woman's head and clangs against a staff meant to disable the prisoner for good.
In a rush of angry cries, the crowd is on them, pummeling with fists, sticks, and whatever weapons they have hidden in their clothing… for Cat was not the only come who came prepared for such an event. Ripping the hood from her head, Delia's crimson hair flies free and she's standing over the fallen store owner's body, protecting her from the onslaught.
It takes a few moments for Lydia to catch her breath as she collapses to the ground. She gasps for breath as she's tugged to her feet, ambling upon them in an effort to find her balance amid the ensuing chaos. Salt crystals line her cheeks as she manages to catch her balance. She holds out her hands, willing the rope binding them be cut.
"Please," she holds her hands up higher. If they're unbound she can actually be of some use. She's not a fighter, but she has some fight in her for those girls.
"You!" the panther with the Robin Hood figure cries out in a voice Lydia and Delia may well recognize as an animalistic version of Cat's own, with a paw pointing accusingly at the redhead who just threw off her hood, "did you make this dreamscape? Make it stop, now!" The beast snarls and begins to advance, leaping with claws out in full intention to tear the members of the crowd apart.
As for the Robin Hood figure, what the hell? When did Robin Hood become a woman of five feet eight inches, clad in the appropriate green suit except for it being cut to a woman's shape? She advances with purpose, drawing arrows from her quiver and aiming at the members of the crowd in rapid succession, to shoot down those closest to harming Lydia.
Delia is on her own, in Cat's mind she caused all this and can stop it at will.
With a single swipe the sword rips through the bindings, jarring the gypsy momentarily. Is the panther really accusing Lydia's savior of causing all of this? Is that redheaded woman the witch that stole the sun? Why is she calling it a dreamscape?
The dying cries of the people as they beg for mercy beneath the weight of panther fill the air. One by one, as they die they disappear from view, melting into the ground as though rain to a parched land. The redhead fights her way toward the panther, deaf to its allegations. There's a spark of anger in her blue eyes, something lost and gained from when the woman/panther saw her last.
"They're looking for the sun," she answers back, "It'll only get worse…" The threat, either coming from the young woman or from the dreamscape itself, is all too real.
Lydia recoils underneath the freedom of the released arms. She shakes her head at Delia, but she isn't convinced Delia is here to hurt them or has essentially made this happen. "The sun needs to be returned to her former glory," she insists as she rubs her wrists glancing amid the chaos. "We need to get to safety. They want blood— anyone's blood! Delia, you need to focus!" So does she in order to get out of this at all.
The beast has her jarred again, rocking against the reverberations of its mighty attack. She draws a sword from a nearby body, now able to defend herself at least minimally. She traipses after Delia, several paces behind.
"You're the only dreamwalker I see here, Delia Ryans," the panther growls out in that oddly Catlike voice, "so if you didn't make this dreamscape, who did? Focus your mind, make the sun return. Take us to my hut!" The beast doesn't brook any argument in her demands, all the while continuing to dispel attackers from Lydia and moving to follow those two wherever they go.
And since it's possible there's another dreamwalker around, unseen, the beast lifts her head and roars at the sky.
"Show yourself, coward! Bring back the sun!"
Rather than anyone answering the call, Cat finds herself hurtled through the air by some unseen force. Much like when Delia left her hut during the first visit. The world seems so much smaller from up in the air, people shrinking from their regular sizes to those of ants before she finally winks out of existence.
Likewise, Lydia is also thrown, but not up. She is blown backward from the dreamwalker, to hit the side of a building. The challenge to focus met with a wrath that's never been seen in the young woman, at least not in several years. The empath can only assume that it was the redhead herself that did it when she lowers her hand and glares at the woman.
"It will only get worse…" she warns again, "Find. My. Body." And with a battle cry worthy of a Highlander, the young woman tosses herself into battle. This time engaging anyone who dares stand in her way.
The thud doesn't actually happen, yet it reverberates through Lydia's consciousness like she'd fallen from the bed. With a start she sits up in the bed. Her long straight hair clings uncomfortably to her neck as she clutches the side of the bed, trying to anchor herself along it. A glance is given to her bedmate; she still can't breathe, her lungs won't work. Unlike some, she believes in the power of dreams fortunes, and the like.
She slides off the bed, letting her feet hit the floor with a soft thud. The breath remains caught in her throat as her hand reaches around her neck where the noose had been. Beads of sweat form along her brow and the major areas of her body.
With that, she slinks from the room, her own personal walls rebuilding thanks to the dream. Sometimes a woman just needs to follow her gut.
When the Robin Hood-suited woman goes flying, the panther goes with her, still snarling and lashing out with claws. But there's no landing, instead she's suddenly back where she began, in that meadow under the warm sun. A voice speaks to her, laden with confusion and concern.
"Kit-Kat, where did you go? And what's with the animal companion?"
Cat flashes a slight smile, her features still mostly laden with anger and determination, the panther pacing at her side now.
"Let me tell you a story, Courtney D," Cat replies, invoking the name she customarily employs when the lover compares her to a candy bar.
"It's all about Carl Jung, and people who walk in dreams…"